Afoot!
by iHedge
Summary: A widow comes to Holmes and Watson with the murder of her husband. ON-HOLD. Lost it all when my computer gasped its last.


Sherlock Holmes

**Hello! This is my first fanfiction EVER! I'm excited…but a little disappointed, too—this is not the one I wanted to be the first. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little one-shot that may or may not develop into an actual story. Oh yes. The obligatory disclaimer! My first one, too. **

**I own nothing, and if I did, I'd be typing this on a laptop while waiting for my thousands of iTunes purchases to download.**

**Enjoy!**

_Constructive criticism is encouraged and appreciated, as are reviews and gummi bears. _

_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ._

"Mr. Holmes! A visitor to see you," Mrs. Hudson called, ushering in a veiled woman tightly clutching a wrinkled shawl. I tried to employ my friend's methods of observation, taking in the black, drooping hat, the rigid, emotionless face; but all I could deduce was the obvious fact that the lady was a young widow.

"Please, sit down," Holmes said, pulling out a chair and dusting it off with the end of his robe. "Brighton is a long way from Baker Street, especially by Runabout." The lady laughed, but quickly grew sedate again.

"Mr. Holmes, my husband was murdered yesterday." I flinched at this sudden introduction, but Holmes never moved. "Scotland Yard insists that it was an accident, but I believe otherwise." The lady's voice quivered as she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her veiled eyes. "Please, Mr. Holmes, please help me! You are my last hope!" At this, she broke down completely.

Holmes stood up and patted her shoulder, quickly reassuring her,

"Have no fear, madam. Watson and I will help you—but I need more details. Is there anything else you can tell me?" He returned to his armchair and steepled his fingers, his eyes lighting up at the scent of this new case.

Composing herself, the lady straightened and continued her story.

"My name is Adelaide Stone, and my poor husband's name is—was—Ian. He was a good man, but prone to gambling every now and then." Already, I had formed my theory, but I could see that Holmes's mind was shying away from the obvious and tracking down the obscure.

"Early yesterday morning, Ian got out of bed and went for a drink of water—"

"Was this normal for him?" Holmes interrupted, a curious gleam dancing in his piercing eyes.

"Yes, he could never sleep straight through the night," Mrs. Stone smiled thinly. "But this night, he never came back to bed. After about an hour, I grew worried, and went looking for him. I found him, but he was, of course, dead. There were no wounds, and I had never heard a sound through the hour that he was gone."

Holmes's eyes were bright, his fingers running around the handle of his pipe systematically. The strange aroma of this puzzle to him was like the scent of a fox to a bloodhound. He had leaned forward, nearly falling out of the chair once or twice, so keen was his excitement at this baffling mystery.

"Was there any signs of a struggle? Was anything out of place? How was your husband lying on the ground? Was he still in his nightclothes? Was there a window nearby? Were there footprints anywhere outside the house?" Holmes said in one breath.

"No—no sign of a struggle. There was a candlestick lying on the ground next to poor Ian, but it was new, and he was still dressed in his nightclothes. But he wasn't lying down—he was sitting on a chair next to the fireplace. The windows are on the far side of the room, and there were no footprints outside of them." Holmes could not contain his enthusiasm any longer. Leaping to his feet, he threw on an overcoat and tossed his pipe next to his Persian slippers stuffed full of tobacco.

"Come, come, Dr. Watson! The game's afoot!" He cried gleefully, already halfway out the door. Sighing, I put his pipe in its proper place and escorted Mrs. Stone out of the building. Holmes had already hailed a hansom, but thankfully had remembered his manners and waited for us. Just before climbing into the hansom, he turned to me and whispered with a twinkle in his sharp eyes,

"I have my suspicions about our young widow, Watson! But shh—don't say a word!" With that caution, he flew into the hansom, every fiber of his body on edge at the prospect of a new case.


End file.
